The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress
by The Unoriginal
Summary: A reckless escapade changes Draco's life forever and not for the better. Who else can he trust with his secret if he cannot even trust himself? Set during OoTP and featuring werewolf!Draco.
1. The Wolf at the Door

**The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress**

**Acknowledgements:** many thanks to my betas, SlytherinKisses and Epoch Everlasting, for their invaluable work: any errors still left are my fault, not theirs. A particular mention ought to go to fellow Pit author Vanny Pegasus-Ketchum, for providing me with the starting idea and issuing the challenge.

Chapter one -  
The Wolf at the Door

_You fell to earth without a lament  
And realised in a single moment  
That your life would end that day  
And there would be no mending way._  
FABRIZIO DE ANDRÈ, _La guerra di Piero_

Three more weeks until school, and the country was wilting away under an implacable sun. Even at night, the moist, still air did nothing to soothe the suffering. Only cold-blooded animals seemed at ease; the unceasing chirring of the crickets and the rhythmic croaks coming from the lily pond were punctuated by the screams of the peacocks.

Even with Cooling Charms and the open window, the room was stifling. Draco lay on the bed, too hot to sleep.

"_Keow_!" came the scream from the aviary.

"Shut up, featherbrain," he murmured, rolling onto a fresher side of the bed.

"_Keow_!"

_They've been going on for too long. There's a marten out there,_ Draco thought.

_Or maybe a jarvey._  
He had been wanting one for a pet since he had learned they could be tamed, but Mother had never allowed him – foul-mouthed jarveys were for gardeners and stable hands, not for her little boy.

He picked up his wand from the bedside table, put on jacket and sandals, and left through the back door.

A bright round moon, coated in ragged clouds, lightened the sky, and the delicate iron wrought aviary looked like it as if it was made of cobwebs. Inside, the peacocks jumped restlessly from perch to perch or paced the ground, only stopping to let out their plaintive wails.

No wind agitated the air; the only rustling sounds came from the aviary, the peacocks dragging their outlandish tails on the dusty earth.

Something moved with a soft rustle behind the trimmed boxes that bordered the walk. Draco closed, wand in hand, moving as quiet as he could on the crunchy gravel, ready to cast a Stunning Charm as soon as the jarvey was in sight. Slowly, Draco leaned over the hedges to the place from which the sound was coming…

_There!_ Beneath the bushes, crouched in ambush, its fur reflecting the moonlight like a cascade of pins. But it was all wrong, hunchbacked, greyish, too large, too leggy...

Fangs and yellow eyes filled his sight, and there was time for nothing, not a spell, not a scream, not even for panic. The force of the impact knocked him down, his wand flew from his hand, and he found himself on the ground, face to face with the beast, with a scream stuck in his throat.

The wolf made a soft woof and licked his lips, almost playfully. Its breath smelled of rotten flesh and decay and its fur, caked with curdled blood, was sticking out in spikes. It had already killed that night, but that hadn't quelled its craving for blood.

Draco lay as still as a corpse, fearing that a move or a noise would trigger the attack. The wand was tantalisingly close, but the beast was close too. It grimaced, exposing an uneven hedge of long tawny fangs; a low rumble, like some Muggle engine, came from within the beast's chest.

For an endless moment they remained still, staring at each other. Then Draco lost his nerve and made a desperate lunge for the wand, kicking gravel. The wolf pounced.

"_Stupef…_"

The bite was almost gentle at first, like a squeeze on his wand arm through the thin cloth until the teeth punctured the skin, drawing blood. Then the beast shook its head, and its teeth dug deep furrows in the flesh. A blazing fire ran along the arm, and Draco, gritting his teeth, grabbed a tuft of fur with his left hand and pulled.

The wolf, still growling, lost its hold. Draco changed the grip on his wand, but before he could cast a wobbly spell with his less exercised hand the wolf had already turned tail, leaping across the trimmed hedge, and was gone. Draco lay across the path, staring at the perfect luminous circle in the sky and holding his injured arm, as the peacocks mourned the setting moon.

* * *

Breakfast was always a silent affair at the Manor; none in the family was an early bird, and Lucius especially only started to function after his second cuppa. The selection had somewhat narrowed following the loss of the house-elf, and the only sound was the occasional scraping of knives on the toasts. 

Father's face was only half visible, hidden as it was by the Daily Prophet, perched against the china teapot as usual. His grey eyes moved from side to side, scanning the page; there were shadows below. He had become more and more withdrawn since the Triwizard Tournament, often leaving the house for days on end and locking himself up in his study when he was home. There were important matters that required his presence and attention; everything would be back to normal soon, he said.

As of now, they were still waiting for 'soon' to come.

"You look pale, Draco. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." Draco purposely looked at the far wall, frowning; he knew if he had looked his mother's face, the lie would become transparent. He put down his teacup, making an effort not to wince. He had spent more than half the night tending to his wound, to little avail. His whole arm was hot and pounding, the hand limp and insensitive like a glove attached to his wrist, and he had to keep an eye on it to be sure it handled objects properly.

"Are you feeling all right?" Narcissa asked, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. Draco shifted, and the sudden motion sent waves of shock through his injured limb.

"_Don't touch me!_" he yelled. Then, in a lower tone, "I'm not a baby anymore."

"Don't snap at your mother, Draco." Lucius lowered the Daily Prophet just so he could look at him. "It would look as you had a rough night, indeed." He cocked his head quizzically. "You look ill."

Draco went for the calmest tone he could muster. "It was just too hot to sleep, all right? I don't see what all the fuss is about."

His parents exchanged an anxious look, then seemingly decided it was one of those rebellious phases, and returned to their breakfast. Draco watched them eat, a painful knot swelling in his throat. He felt hot and cold at the same time. Right now he would have wanted to hug Mother, to tell her he was sorry, but that would lead to enquiring and he was not ready to tell, he would _never_ be.

She wouldn't kiss away his boo this time, that was for sure. He remembered her having gone into a towering rage, even worse than Father's, once it had been revealed that Lupin was a werewolf. She was not the type of witch to raise her voice or write Howlers, but she had given Professor Snape quite a piece of her mind for turning a blind eye and allowing a dangerous monster near her son for such a long time. How would she react if she found out that said son grew fur under the full moon, Draco did not want to think about.

"Son, we're not so old that we can't try for a better one," was the phrase that would immediately put a lid on his most energetic temper tantrums when he was a child. After a while it had ceased being effective, though, and Draco had not heard it in a long time; and yet it had kept echoing in the back of his mind, like an ominous earworm, for the whole morning. To think that his parents would disown him was unconceivable… although Mother's own sister had been rejected from her family for much less, and her name was never spoken, as if it was a dirty word.

"I have some business at Gringott's," Lucius announced, getting up from his chair. "I'll be back by lunchtime."

That usually announced the end of the breakfast, so before he could be asked to clear the table, Draco excused himself under the pretence of wanting to firecall a friend and went to his rooms. Once there, he set to change the bandages he had clumsily applied that night for fresh ones. The bite was a horrible sight; the skin looked like it had been carved away in places, leaving the flesh exposed, and the frayed edges of the deep furrows were discoloured and swollen. The ointment he was using was not strong enough by a long way – it was the one he used for razor cuts – but it was all he had for now. Each time he dabbed the wounds, the shock ran through his arm as if he had touched a Muggle wire, and he had to pause and take a breath; but by the time he heard the front door closing, his arm was wrapped in clean white gauze from wrist to elbow, and the pain had dulled to a constant throbbing.

He went downstairs and prowled down the room at the end of the corridor. The lock was charmed to resist _Alohomora_, but Draco had had a copy of the keys for years.

He closed the door behind, and forgetting for once the stash of liquors in the cabinet he went directly for the bookshelf. He remembered the book well, a thick tome bound in blue leather with silver bosses. He had browsed it only once, when as a child he had snuck into Father's study and rummaged through his papers. He had not even been reprimanded for his escapade; surely Father had figured out that nightmares the book would give him were punishment enough. With a heavy sigh, he crouched in a corner and opened _Truths and Myths about the Dark Creatures: an Illustrated Guide._

"_Wolves are no more in England, having been exterminated by Muggle __hunters. Thus__ if one attacks, especially at the full moon, it will certainly be a cursed beast..."_

_There goes my last hope,_ he thought darkly.

Differences between a common wolf and a werewolf, however, had certainly been exaggerated. In no way the beast he had encountered possessed _"human eyes, a short snout, gibbous withers and the ability to walk on its hind legs"_. Nonetheless, he kept reading.

"_The attacks vary in ferociousness from beast to beast and from time to time: bites may be ravaging, with great amount of flesh ripped out, or shallow punctures that barely bleed. The outcome, however, never changes: come their first full moon, the bitten persons will fall under the curse and run around in wolf-form, searching for prey, and spreading the disease further."_

Suddenly Draco raised his head; he had thought he has heard Mother calling. He stood still, with a keen ear, but heard nothing more and delved again into the book, turning page after page with an increasing repulsion.

"_Maximum care needs to be taken in preventing attacks, for no cure for the condition exists."_

"_The curse… spreads through the bloodstream all but instantaneously… one young wizard, who had received but a scratch in the ankle, bravely cut his own leg and sealed the wound with fire... to no avail... he was finally put down..."_

"No," he murmured. Cold sweat was freezing on the nape of his neck and he felt like he needed to throw up. Frantically, he flipped the pages until he reached a minuscule section titled,_"Managing the Condition."_

The flanking illustrations depicted a thin black wolf with bloodshot eyes restrained onto a wooden table while two mediwitches and a huge Auror stood by, wands at the ready. The straps had dug into the flesh at its neck and paws, and foamy spit was trickling onto the gag bit stuck in its mouth. Below that picture, the same scene as it appeared hours (days?) later; the restraints had been unfastened and a little old wizard was sitting on the table. There were red marks on the his wrists and ankles where the straps had chafed the skin, and he was smiling feebly for the benefit of the engraver, but his eyes told a different story.

Draco slammed the book shut, gave a quivering sigh and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed.


	2. Family Planning

**The Moon is a Harsh Mistress**

by** The Unoriginal**

**Acknowledgements:** to my thorough and dedicated beta, Epoch Everlasting. Any errors still left are my fault and not hers.

Chapter two -

Family Planning

_'Deny, you're such a liar  
You won't know the truth if it bit you in the street  
Deny, you're such a liar  
You're selling you no-no all the time' _

THE CLASH, _Deny_

_

* * *

  
_

It could have been much worse, Draco thought, returning to his room; it could have been a _disaster_... but against his own darkest predictions he had made it. He had managed to behave around Father and Mother as if nothing wrong had happened, despite the pain and the fear and the lack of sleep.

But the price on his nerves had been heavy and a small muscle was trembling uncontrollably under his eye as he quietly shut the door behind his back.

A daring raid to the master bedroom had provided a jar of painkilling paste, and his arm went pleasantly warm and numb under a thick layer of the stuff. The heavy herbal smell also made him dozy, so he lay across the bed and dared to shut his eyes, only for a moment...

He sank into unconsciousness almost immediately. The grisly illustrations crept into his dreams and mutated his own memories into a horrid, hallucinated hodgepodge of facts and fears.

He was sitting in class at Hogwarts, listening that dolt Lockhart prattling on while a cage covered by a thick dark cloth rattled ominously on the desk... and Draco knew perfectly what lay in that cage, but his body refused to move and he could only sit frozen in his desk as the pompous idiot whipped off the cover, revealing a whirl of silver fur and yellow fangs... the wolf jumped onto his desktop and came muzzle to face with him, growling, thick cordons of diseased spit dribbling from his withdrawn lips onto the parchment rolls...

"Yeh always wait fer the werewolf ter make the firs' move. It's polite, see?" the oaf Hagrid said, and now they weren't in the castle anymore, but in the Forbidden Forest. The peacock aviary stood in the middle of a clearing, and inside it a mangy werewolf paced on the sawdust.

The tattered remnants of a Hogwarts robe dangled from the werewolf's neck and back, and its light brown fur was flecked with grey. Potter had just walked the werewolf and they were all expected to do the same, so Draco bent forward, pushed an arm through the iron wrought cage and patted his muzzle.

"I bet you're not dangerous at all, are you?" he said. "Are you, you great ugly brute?"

There was a flash of fangs and pain, and Hagrid was now rushing him to the castle. Everything was dark and cold. He could smell horse shit and wood smoke and stale sweat on the half-breed's beard and coat, and feel the blood trickling down his arm and hand, draining him of strength and life...

"I'm dying," he cried. "It's killed me..."

"Yer not dyin'," Hagrid's voice, right into his left ear. "Yer goin' ter be fine, yer goin' ter live in the Forest with the rest of yer breed... _ah ah ahAHAHAHAHAH_!"

Draco awakened with a jolt and fell back onto the bed, listening to the pounding of his heart. He was so disoriented, at first he thought he was still in the Infirmary Wing, with an arm slashed open by a mad Hippogriff, delirious from the blood loss and the Sanguiferous Solution vapours.

He stood up and went to the window, trying to sort himself out. His brain kicked in and volunteered details about the the two years in between, and about the previous night: the latter ones had taken a flavour of unreality. The attack had happened in a sort of disconnected fast-forward and it was hard to look from above at the garden wilting away under an implacable sunlight, and think of it as something that had actually taken place. The details, brisk in the morning, were now hazy like the hills rising away in the distance.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, he pointed the wand at his black lacquered trunk keeping his school supplies and _Accio_ed out the old copy of Gilderoy Lockhart's _Wandering with Werewolves_, perusing it with an eagerness he had never before felt for a textbook. Two minutes into it was enough to gather he was not going to find any help there:

"_The werewolves surrounding me with their teeth bared suddenly retreated with their tails between their legs as the alpha, a huge grey beast measuring ten feet from head to tail, with his snout covered in purple scars, motioned in for the kill. Clearly, having witnessed me slaughter half of his pack with a single spell, he saw me as such a danger to their ilk that not even turning me into one of their own would soothe his thirst for revenge._

_Cornered, but not defeated, I held a firm grip on my wand and proudly kept eye contact as the monster slowly crawled towards my shelter. I could smell his rasping breath from fifty paces; it smelled of fresh human blood._

_- Attack me at your own peril! - I shouted…"_

"Fuck it," Draco hissed, and delved again into the trunk.

His third-year Dark Arts book was outdated and even less useful, having been obviously written for the benefit of wizards and not that of Dark creatures. He ignored the "safest, fool-proof" way suggested by one Rudolphe Grigou for hunting werewolves (which involved "a young Squib, a sea-silk net and a silver dagger") and searched for a description of the symptoms.

There they were, squeezed in the tiniest script at the bottom of the page as an author's note that seemed to have been copied word-by-word from Salazar's textbook, after all why would wizards need to bother? The only cure was _not getting bitten_ in the first place_._

"_The Victim is wont to feel, first a pa__ſ__sing Tiredne__ſ__s; and a desire for Isolation. Over the course of the following days, such Conditions are to be observed as indicative of a Contagion: bouts of Melancholy followed by great Exhuberance; Disgust for one's food, or conversely unusual Cravings; an exce__ſ__s of Sweat, or a mild Feaver; alterations in the Vision, and Hearing; feeling restive and wary of Strangers; experienceing ob__s__e__ſ__sive Thoughts, and a general Depre__ſ__sion of the __S__pirit."_

"No, _really_?" Draco let out. What a load of bull: weren't you entitled to "experience obsessive thoughts", with a great dirty hangman of a Healer hovering over you, checking you hourly for whiskers?

The book joined _Wandering with Werewolves_ with a rustle and a thud.

Draco sighed and absently rubbed his arm, which was throbbing dully from under the bandages. This was not much worse than the slash from that stupid Hippogriff, which admittedly had been barely a scratch, whereas cursed wounds were supposed to hurt a lot. Chances were it was just a common wolf, escaped from those monstrous Muggle menageries...

Perhaps it was not even a wolf. Just a huge stray, crazed by the heat and the thirst and the loneliness, and magnified in his memory by the darkness and the shock of its sudden appearance...

Struck by a sudden epiphany, Draco let out a hissing curse. Couldn't it have been that vicious Sirius Black, had not Father told them all to watch out for a large dog?

And he had _always_ despised his family. Attacking a next of kin, taking advantage of his Animagus form against someone smaller and unexperienced would be just like him. And fooling Draco into thinking that he would be cursed forever, perhaps driving him to do something rash and extreme...

A combination of self-pity and outrage enveloped him and he paced the room, huffing, until his arm started to ache again and he had to sit down.

Despite what the book said, it didn't necessarily have to be a werewolf and whatever it carried didn't necessarily have to be catching. Two books out of the three he had consulted were a pile of dragon dung. What would be the odds the first one was any different? Pretty slim.

He was fretting over nothing, he decided. Nevertheless, it would not hurt to be away from the Manor for some time, in a month's time – just in case.

Not that anything was going to happen.  
But the wait would be stressful and he was better somewhere quiet, somewhere he could be away from family – away from everyone else, actually – and _unrestrained_...

He wasn't going to tie himself to anything, that was for sure. Huh-_huh_. The picture of that poor bastard with the straps cutting into his wrists was all the warning he needed. Perhaps if he could just brew himself some calming draughts, that would help him with… his nerves.

Further upset with the anticipation of the upcoming ordeal, Draco wiped the sweat away from his face. He felt hot and freezing at the same time, like he was running a mild fever, but he blamed it on the weather and the morbid readings.

Then the lunch bell tolled and shook him out of his reverie.

_It will pass. I'll be alright._

He changed, checked that the bandages were not showing from under the sleeve, and went downstairs.

* * *

Lunch was refreshing. Vichyssoise and salad, delicious as always, and the food took his mind further away from his affliction. By the time he excused himself and left, he had drafted a plan of action.

He reached the fireplace in the foyer, sprinkled some Floo onto the embers and called "Gregory Goyle". At once the sooty stone disappeared, revealing the salon of Goyle House.

The hall was as vast as the Manor's, but darker and less ornate. Mrs Goyle was standing with her back to the fireplace, grabbing the backrest of a well-worn armchair for support and yelling at the old house-elf, Skivvy, showing no sign of having noticed that her Floo had just erupted in green roaring flames.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Goyle."

The yelling continued. Draco's head was level with the house-elf's now and she looked pitiful, torn between properly announcing the Floo call and rudely interrupting her mistress, or listening properly to her reprimand and rudely making a guest witness to an unbecoming scene.

It was fun to watch, but getting old by the minute. Draco cleared his throat. "A-hem."

Still nothing, and he was running out of patience and Floo.

"_Mrs. Goyle_!" he bellowed, making her jump a good foot in the air and shoot sparks from her wand. She finally realised she had a guest and approached the fireplace, while the house-elf, her conflict having resolved itself, vanished beyond a set of curtains.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Goyle," Draco greeted affectedly. "Can Ispeak to Gregory, if that's not too much of an inconvenience?"

The old witch, now rather wide-eyed and upset, nodded frantically and left without a word. The room fell into silence. There was a dim, rhytmical sound coming from the depths of the house: probably Skivvy, hammering her fingernails. She was keeping a good tempo for such a decrepit thing. Alone, with nothing to do, Draco studied the salon.

Clearly it was the best-kept room in the house, what with the Floo and visitors, but it radiated a forlorn appearance, of something past its prime. There were dust bunnies around the fringes of the heavy velvet curtains and the rather forbidding portrait of Gregory's grandfather, Bruce, had dust on its carved frame, something Draco did not remember from his last visit and probably the cause of Mrs. Goyle's vocal outburst. There were also darker halos on the furniture, as if objects that had been in that place for centuries had been taken away.

Finally, Gregory arrived, hunched, sullen and swaying from side to side like he had learned to walk on a boat. He looked sleepy and cross, as if he had just been awakened, and acknowledged Draco's presence with a curt nod.

"Huh, Draco."

"Hi, Greg. How are things?"

"Rotten."

"Uh-huh. Listen, I've got an idea. What do you think about going camping for a week?"

"Well, I dunno..." Gregory muttered, then fell silent again, relying as usual on others to do the thinking for him.

"Well I think it's a nice idea." Draco gritted his teeth. "Do you still have that tent?"

"That what?"

"The _camping tent_, Greg! Didn't you say you went camping with your cousin last summer?"

At the time, Draco had sneered upon the prospect of sleeping under a canvas and listening to two teenagers snoring or worse, and had declined the invitation. But now, it was just what he needed.

Meanwhile, the concept had boarded Gregory's train of thoughts and comprehension dawned on his large face: "Uh, yeah. Dunno, I'll ask the old hag, she's the one who puts away stuff." Then after a pause: "If she hasn't sold it yet."

"Thanks, Greg," Draco said, feeling somewhat sad for him. His friend had told him in great secrecy that his mother had taken to drinking lately. Apparently some people just weren't made of good enough stuff, and it was common knowledge that Goyle senior had found it hard to find a witch, marrying late and below his blood, but if the rumour found its way to Hogwarts that would destroy Gregory's reputation, and Draco could not afford that.

The rest of the firecall, when Greg returned with his findings, was plain and just as one would expect from a conversation with him: yes, the tent was still in the old carriage stable; sure, camping sounded fun; early August was fine; and Vincent would surely agree, he had Flooed over just the previous day, bored out of his skull. Draco greeted his friend one last time, then withdrew from the Goyles' fireplace in a whirlwind of ashes.

* * *

Narcissa was cutting roses for the Chinese vase in the hallway. Taking care of the flowers had always been her favourite pastime at the Manor, something she had brought as a dowry from her childhood. Now Lucius had his albino fowl; hers were the Maiden's Blush trellises and the lily pond with its bordering of callae.

But the garden wasn't giving her much joy these days. Lucius was always away these days, claiming old favours and making new debts and trying to hide from her the obvious fact that the Dark Lord was displeased with the Malfoys.

It was happening again, just like the first time - in which they had laboured hard and craftily, only to see their dreams and ambitions crumble in the space of an evening; and then had come the inquiry, the searches, and the questioning.

"_Rescindo. Rescindo._"

Magical dew glistened in the sunshine as the spells clipped the thorns neatly from the stems. One last Severing Charm and the rose joined its companions in the bunch she was holding. She needed a dozen and was counting under her breath - "_nine for regret, ten for a dance, eleven for a threat, twelve for a chance_" - when she heard steps on the gravel path and her son's voice, tainted with insecurity.

"Mother…?"

For an instant, apprehension had the better of her and she turned, wand pointed and ready to cast an Unforgivable, picturing intruders, assailants, hitwizards... Then it all vanished as Draco went on in a single breath:

"...Vincent has invited me over to his house for a week."

Reassured, but still a little shaken, Narcissa turned slightly away so Draco wouldn't have to see how her wand hand was trembling. She blamed it on her own dark thoughts; it served her right for dwelling on the worst days from a distant past when all that mattered was here and now.

"So... can I go, Mother?" Draco pressed on.

"You and Vincent alone?"

"No, Greg is coming too."

She pondered that occurrence, glad to have a distraction from the course her train of thoughts was taking, but frowning slightly nonetheless.

She didn't like it when Draco was away.

She didn't like it even when he was at Hogwarts, even with Snape keeping watch, let alone with his witless friends, in that labyrinthine abode that was home to the Goyles – they said old Bruce still kept all the old hardware in the dungeons and sharpened the blades weekly.

In the end, she chose to procrastinate.

"We'll see what your father thinks. In the meanwhile, would you give me a hand with the garden?"_  
_

Draco had to keep his face in check to be sure there wasn't a wide grin forming on it. He had always been able to talk Father into getting what he wanted, but Mother was a Griffin of a different colour, and he couldn't believe his luck at seeing the biggest obstacle on his path yielding like that.

Not only, but it turned out that the "hand" she needed was a batch of poisoned bait to get rid of some gnomes that had been ruining her Undulating Irises patch, which meant Draco would get a chance to prepare some potions.

A feeling of longing took hold of him as they descended into the cellar. It was refreshingly cool, with a smell like his dormitory at Hogwarts, and immediately filled him with fond memories of the school.

Some summer this had turned to be.

In the wake of the Dark Lord's return, he had hoped that he would join Father as a Death Eater and finally see some action, but all he had been told was that "the time wasn't ripe yet" and that he ought to behave as if nothing had happened: and the days had dragged by ever since, as slow as flowing tar.

Though ecstatic at the opportunity provided, nonetheless Draco had to voice his disapproval at being required to do menial work.

"Why do_ I_ have to?" he whined, out of habit more than else, lest Mother realized how much he liked brewing and asked him to prepare every single concoction in use at the Manor.

"Because you're a better potioneer than I, and your father is too busy these days."

"Well then, I'll need a hand with the preparation," he drawled. "Snape always puts two of us at a cauldron. I'm not used to brewing alone."

He was pushing his luck with this one, but to his relief Mother set herself on a side bench and started hashing ingredients, which was good – Draco didn't dare to exercise his arm too much.

The brewing went on in a silence broken only by short, functional exchanges, and only when Narcissa started to peel a stinking birthwort root, Draco voiced his discontent again.

"An house-elf should do that."

"We don't have a house-elf anymore, and you know whom you should thank for this," she replied, chopping the root so harshly that the top flew across the cellar.

"Perhaps I'll do it once the term starts. I bet Potter's not feeling so cocky these days."

Draco grinned through the vapours, glad for the opportunity to take another jab at Potter, but Mother seemed lost in deep thought. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but the beautiful face was inscrutable.

And then he was brought back to the harsh reality that he wouldn't be feeling so cocky himself in September... provided he could carry it off so far...

_Watch the brew, _he told himself, and checked the potion just in time. A certain resistance in the movement of the ladle told him that the bottom was beginning to stick. He fanned the cauldron and gritted his teeth as a burning sensation started to spread to his forearm again: the effect of the painkiller was waning. He sighed and consoled himself with the notion that they would be finished soon. The concoction had now the consistency of honey and stuck to the cauldron, a sign that it was nearly ready.

Now came the hard part. The actual poison had been finished, but it needed to be made palatable. In went an ounce of ground meat, stewed mushrooms and horned snails, a spoonful of pickles and steamed rice. All this added to the concoction's thickness and the book said "mix thoroughly". By the time the bait had been stirred, made into small meatballs and laid out on the marble bench to cool, Draco was bathed in sweat and gritting his teeth.

"It's done, Mother," he announced wearily.

"Good job, Draco. Just one more thing now, get Kratos inside the cage. You wouldn't want him to get sick on one of these. I'll tell you when it's safe to let him out again."

Kratos was spending the hot afternoon in the shadiest cavity of a mulberry tree, but came at once when Draco whistled, flying onto his shoulder and hooting softly. Obedient as always, he entered the cage himself and didn't object to being locked in.

"There's a good owl," Draco praised him, and filled the trough with treats before hanging the cage to a ceiling beam.

All that activity had taken its toll; pain came in waves and Draco felt an urge to get sick, but soldiered on as they spread the bait under the irises, many of which hung limply as if their tubers had been severed or chewed. Gnomes disliked the heat as much as wizards and in this season they usually carried their food underground to eat, conveniently sparing them the sight of dead vermin lying around the garden.

He excused himself as soon as they were finished, then rushed to the bathroom upstairs. He was no sooner into the bathroom that he was already out of his robes, the bandage half undone. He applied another heavy dose of paste on the scabs and lay on the floor, half naked, the tiles pleasantly cool against his sweaty skin.

* * *

The gnomes ate the bait and croaked, the irises recovered nicely within a few days and obtaining the permission became a pure formality.

"On one condition, though," Father said, wearing his best no-nonsense face. "For absolutely no reason you are to go into the dungeons. It's full of dangerous artifacts. House-elves have died down there and you know how hard it is to kill _those._"

In another occasion, that might just have been the incentive for Draco and his friends to go explore the place, but right now he couldn't have cared less.

"We won't be entering the mansion. Greg came up with this idea – we'll be camping on the grounds in his tent, it'll be fun."

"_Camping_?" The look on Father's face was half amused, half disgusted. "Well – personally, I can't see why one would voluntarily go back to living like it was the Founders' times, even just for a week, but it's your vacation and you've earned it, so I was told. Just be sure not to bring home any nasty _parasites_."

The look that came from under the furrowed eyebrows ought to have worried Draco, but he was too relieved to even notice it.

* * *

Father Apparated them and their luggage, one at a time, in the part of the grounds farthest from the Goyle mansion; Draco was last. By the time he appeared in the clearing at Father's arm, Vince and Greg were already mock-fighting.

Compared to the Malfoy estate, the trees were small, gnarled and disorderly, the ground uneven and covered with criss-crossing roots, dead stumps and thorny shrubs. Father cast a scathing look around the place.

"I'll ask it once more, Draco," he drawled. "Are you sure this is your idea of a vacation?"

_No, more like my idea of quarantine_. A steel hand seemed to come out of nowhere and choke Draco's reply. Unable to find his voice, he just nodded. That seemed enough, however.

"You may have fooled your mother, but you won't fool me, Draco."

The words were accompanied by a strong hand grabbing his arm: Draco froze and looked up: all his blood seemed to have curdled into his veins.

"All these subterfuges, this camping trip... do you think I'm a fool, son?" There was real disappointment in that flat voice, in those narrowed eyes.

Exposed, shamed, cornered, Draco would have uttered a full confession there and then, if only his throat had not shrunk to such a point that a greased needle wouldn't have gone through. But Father did not wait for a reply.

* * *

_No, there was not a problem with uploading – that's really my way of ending chapters. Gotta love those cliffhangers._


	3. The Boys of Summer

**The Moon is a Harsh Mistress**

**Disclaimer: **Harry Potter and associated characters belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Acknowledgements:** To my betas Gina Hildebrand and Hyseion, for trying to make this better.

Chapter three -  
The Boys of Summer

'_We'll sit and watch the clouds roll by  
And the tall grass wave in the wind  
You can lay your head back on the ground  
__And let your hair fall all around me  
Offer up your best defense  
But this is the end__  
This is the end of innocence'_  
DON HENLEY, _The End of Innocence_

"Did you think your own father wouldn't figure what you're up to? Did it occur to you that I have been fifteen myself? It wasn't so long ago that I have forgotten it completely."

Those words had Draco completely befuddled: what did age have to do with all this? He swallowed tentatively and managed to croak a "Wh... what?" before his throat failed him again and his voice broke to a wheeze.

"Oh, quit stammering like a house-elf!" Father cried. "You might have deceived your mother, she'd never expect such a thing from you, but I'm not that easy to fool. I thought I had taught you better than this: obviously I was wrong." He sighed and looked Draco straight in the eyes. "Is she at least a witch?"

It took a few moments for Draco to figure out what the question meant and what it implied; moments in which he just stood there with his mouth open, absolutely stunned. Then it all clicked: warmth returned to his body and his knees actually bent a little.

Father misinterpreted his relief for guilt and beckoned for the two of them to sit on a felled trunk, while Crabbe and Goyle kept wrestling each other to the ground.

"Don't worry, Draco, no harm has been done yet... I presume," he began, in the smooth tone which accompanied his reprimands. "At your age a wizard has certain... urges, I understand that. But, I am very worried that you might do anything you'd regret later."

At this point, Draco could have exploded. There were waves of heat and shivers running along his back. He did not know what was worse – that Father had assumed he would go sleeping around like some Muggle-laying manwhore, or that he was indeed hiding _something_ from his parents – and badly at that.

Again, his father took his silence as damning evidence.

"I hope it's not the Parkinson girl."

"No! She's not!" Still trying to figure how to get out of the blind alley in which he had landed, Draco shook his head frantically.

For the time being there was nothing to do but play into the assumption: Father had noticed his odd behaviour and odder request, but he had chalked them up to teenage foolishness, and did not seem particularly mad... better to admit guilt rather than deny all accusations and make him all the more suspicious.

"Good," Father commented. "Whether she's the one with whom you want to spend the rest of your life or isn't, you're not doing yourself a favour, son."

Draco fidgeted with his hands, wondering how to proceed. Suddenly, as if some barrier inside his mind had ripped and was no longer opposing resistance, the idea of endorsing Father's mistaken assumption did not seem as outlandish as before, and it was only a matter of finding the most suitable words to support the fabrication, instead of whether to say them at all.

"It is nothing serious. I was just...." He shrugged. "I just wanted to have some fun while I still could." _Indeed._

Father relaxed visibly at those words. "_Now_ I'm starting to hear some sense," he said. "It is normal to be curious about these things – eager, even... but you must always keep in mind who you are. How's that phrase? Ah, yes: _noblesse oblige_. The others look up to us, Draco. We're expected to lead by example."

"I did not mean any harm, Father. I hadn't thought about it, but now... no good can come out of this. I can see it clearly."

Those words elicited a thought in Draco's mind, a mental image of himself buried to the hilt in a Mudblood, a sickening sight. A particularly perverse portion of his brain had given the slut a head full of frizzy hair streaming in all directions on the pillow, and he nearly threw up in his mouth.

Father planted a hand firmly on his shoulder, and nodded.

"I knew you would. That is why I allowed you to pursue this... nonsense: because I knew you'd need to go this far to recognise what you were heading into. Now I know I raised my son just right. Many families have been brought down by smart whores ensnaring their bachelors, and by your wealth and birth you are a _very_ desirable match."

He closed in and went on in an insinuating tone: "Not to mention the possible consequences for your _heritage_."

Draco had not even considered the subject yet, but the mere mention of it made his hair stand up in spite of the heat. It was the stuff of nightmares, the subject of the most morbid interest among his classmates: how lying with a Muggle would result in the deprivation of one's magical reserves, right through their manhood; the perpetrators would pay dearly for their reckless lust by being punished with a progeny of Squibs, while on the other side a cuckolded Muggle would unknowingly sire Mudbloods. Even though some of the seniors, like Montague, were adamant that it was just an old hags' tale, Draco had no intention of testing the theory.

"Then you have no further business in this place," Father said, casting a final glance at the dismal clearing. "Let's go home."

Draco felt as if his broom had bucked him from fifty feet. He had just recovered from the shock of Father's accusation and his guard had slid down as the third-degree muted into a father-to-son chat about the facts of life. Now, just when he thought he had regained a tad of control on the situation, he was cornered.

"D-do I - do I have to?" he stammered. "Crabbe and Goyle, what would they think about it?"

Father looked surprised, and not pleasantly. He raised his head to look at the two boys. They were exhausted now and lying on the grass: Crabbe had picked up a long twig and was surreptitiously trying to stick it up Goyle's nose.

"You let _those two_ in on the matter?"

Draco nodded again. "The strict necessary. But if I just go home now, they'll think I'm chickening out. Father, I am not going to do anything, I swear... please, allow me..."

He reached and held his father's wrist, but to his surprise the man did not reciprocate, allowing the ritual to be completed.

"_Never_ pledge, son," he said icily. "Vows are much too easy to pronounce in a moment of enthusiasm, and will bind you for the rest of your life, no matter how your obligation becomes twisted beyond its original meaning. Show yourself reliable through your actions, not your words, and you shall never be required to swear an oath."

There was an awkward silence after that. Draco stood there, waiting on his tip-toes: Father remained sitting, apparently staring at nothing. Then he resumed: "I guess virtue has to be put to the test in order to be demonstrated. I will _trust_ you not to do anything that will bring shame to the family. On that matter, remember that the Underage Clause is still in force. Remember what happened to Potter?"

Draco nodded. As if he could forget what had happened to Potter!

It had been a ray of sunshine casting light over a dreary fortnight. The hacks of the _Daily Prophet_ had had a ball with that - and Draco too, at reading how Harry Potter, 15, of Little Whinging, had been charged of improper use of magic and first-degree breaching of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and was expecting possible expulsion from Hogwarts. Pansy had Flooed over and they had spent the afternoon taking turns at reading the juiciest parts, enacting possible versions of the events each funnier than the previous one, and generally having the best time since the _Potter Stinks Society_ (Pansy's rendition of a buck-toothed, wild-haired Granger especially had had him in tears).

The amusement vanished quickly as Draco remembered where he was, and why. Father was staring at him with a strange expression that mixed fondness and worry. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but jolted instead. The way his entire body had unconsciously arched to the left, as if to shield the tender flesh on the forearm, left no doubts as to the reason: his Mark was burning.

"I'm... summoned," he explained labouredly. "Must leave..."

"Go, then," Draco said. "Don't worry about me."

Father stood up swiftly and gave Draco one last silent, indecipherable look. Then, with a muffled _whomp_, he was gone.

The noise gave Goyle a start and put an end to Crabbe's ambushing attempts. As the two resumed fighting on the withered grass, Draco wondered whether he was presently the loneliest person on Earth.

However, that feeling dissipated quickly. There were so many things to keep three young wizards busy, that Draco simply did not have the time to ponder how Father's misapprehension had altered the relationship between the two of them.

First of all, there was the tent. Draco had never seen one from within, and actually the size difference between the inside and the outside made him feel dizzy when Crabbe first went in, growing smaller with every step until he reached the far end and made himself comfortable on a settee which Draco could have held in one hand.

Then it was his turn to enter and make acquaintance with the place. There was a faint smell, the tapestry on the walls was threadbare, opaque and out of fashion, but the furniture had the subtle sheen of broken-in wood, and the armchair he sat in settled nicely against his back. He patted the armrests and declared the place as adequate.

"Yeah, innit?" Crabbe said. "It was Greg's great Grandpa's. He went hunting in this."

Hunting was a concept quite remote from the Malfoy mentality, so Draco fumbled for a comment that would not expose him as an utter novice. "Really. What did he hunt?"

"Muggles," came Greg's voice from the kitchen, muffled by a mouthful of food, but otherwise so deadpan and matter-of-factly that Draco didn't doubt it for a second. Then Vince started guffawing and Greg came over and laughed, too, with crumbs of cake coming out of his nose, and he realised he'd just been had. With a snort, he remembered why he had declined the invitation the year before – it was not only the discomfort of camping, but the prospect of putting himself in a situation where he would have to depend on his underlings.

Goyle was by far the most experienced of the three, as well as eager to show off his skills. What with the hot weather and the stove inside the tent, they had no real need for a fire, but he was adamant that they should get one going. Following his advice, they scattered around, gathering dead wood which he placed according to size on a bed of earth and round stones.

The Trace prevented them from using their wands, but they had brought so many charmed devices it was hard to notice any difference. The coolest, trickiest part was the fire. Greg produced some sticks that lit up when struck against the side of their box: they stank like a dog's fart, but provided a nice tongue of flames after the tenth attempt.

"Cool, huh?" he asked, as the fire quickly devoured the tinder and started to attack the larger branches. He added, in a stage-whisper, "They're Muggle matches."

His pride at the successful ignition couldn't have been more evident, and Draco felt like smiling in spite of his funk.

"Now _this _is fire," Vince commented, mesmerised by the flames, which were orange, tall, voracious. "Not that lame magical stove stuff that dies out on its own. This is the real deal."

"Keep an eye on him or he'll set the place on fire," Greg warned. "I'm getting dinner ready."

Mrs. Goyle must have gauged their appetite on her son's, because the pantry doors could barely close for the amount of food stocked. The combination of hot weather and nerves, however, made Draco fastidious to the point Crabbe insinuated he was missing his Mum's kitchen.

After dinner, it was time for recreation. Greg pulled out a booklet titled _1001 Crop Circle Patterns_, which sounded promising. The coolest one had a motif of chainmail getting smaller and smaller towards the circle centre, with snakes sneaking in and out of the rings, and they contemplated the possibility for a while, but on the page it said, 'For Experts'.

"...You know what would be cool?" Vince was rambling on. "We could draw the Dark Mark on a field – so it'd last instead of going away in half an hour like at the Quidditch Cup. Muggles would shit their pants," he concluded in a dreamy voice, a smile spreading on his broad face. "We could set fire to the wheat so it _stays_ down..."

"_Tch_," Draco commented, before his friend could go off on a tangent. "This is Wiltshire, Vince, also known as a lot of fucking fields. Muggles can't see the Dark Mark, and even if they did, what d'you think it would mean to them? It's been fourteen years. But if you want to attract the Aurors' attention by writing the Death Eaters sign right at Gregory's doorstep, be my guest."

At dusk, they took out their broomsticks. They had settled on a spinner design with a three-armed spiral running clockwise, surrounded by a six-armed spiral running counter-clockwise, surrounded by a double ring, which according to the book was _"recommended for a team of three"_. It came out nice, although a bit slanted, because they had forgotten to compensate for rotation after the first hour.

Crabbe and Goyle fell asleep as soon as they hit their beds, whereas Draco spent a lot of time sitting beside the dying fire and watching the moon. It was nearly full now, just a bit flat on the western quart, and it was still high, floating white and bloated in the sky like the face of a drowned corpse, when he finally went to sleep.

He woke up stiff and sore. The bunk was much smaller than the posted beds he was accustomed to, and the mattress did not have the right constitution. He was ravenous and dying for a cup of Assam, but the burner with its diabolical assortment of brazen handles and knobs seemed to dare him to try. Not wanting to risk an explosion, he went out for a walk, waiting for someone else to wake up and set for breakfast.

He took a look at his wristwatch: the moonrise would be at 19:58, and not a minute too soon. He was eager to be done with this wait and moving on... one way or the other.

When he returned to the tent, the sun was high in the sky and the temperature was rising rapidly: Crabbe and Goyle had just woken up and were as sluggish as a pair of Flobberworms. After much prodding on Draco's part, brunch was ready in the form of a fry-up, porridge and tea.

The day went on rather boringly. Draco had found some large brambles during his morning walk and they gathered a bucketful of blackberries. The air rapidly grew too hot for any comfortable physical activity, so they returned to the shade of the tent for games of Exploding Snap and rounds of Butterbeer. By the time the sun's arc started to descend, a sense of warm, alcoholic camaraderie had established.

That was still not enough for Draco's purposes. "I have something special for tonight, boys," he announced, and took out of his trunk a bottle of Firewhiskey, still sealed. Crabbe wolf-whistled at the sight.

"Ogden's Gold Seal! Mythical! Where'd you get it?"

Draco shrugged. He had snatched it from Father's cabinet, obviously – it wasn't like a fifteen-year-old could Apparate to Diagon Alley, walk into the _Cup-Bearer _and bang a couple Sickles onto the counter.

They drank in turns, right from the neck, Knockturn Alley-style. The bottle never rested for long in their hands, and soon it was empty. Crabbe and Goyle became at first loud and incoherent, then apathetic, whereas Draco, who had barely sipped the stuff through clenched teeth, merely felt thirsty.

But, he felt fine otherwise. Where was that nervousness he was supposed to experience? That sharpening of the senses, a desire to stretch, to run, to do violent and extreme things… that was perfectly normal. He had been getting worked up about this for a month and needed to let out the steam somehow. He took one last look at his watch: one hour till moonrise. Time to go.

"I need to clear my head, boys. I'll take a ride."

"'M comin' witcha," Crabbe slurred. Goyle, sprawled on the floor, snored loudly.

"No. You're staying with Greg. I'm fine." Draco took his Nimbus Two Thousand and One and tossed a set of robes in a bag.

"Nossiree, no way. You my bessh friend, Drakey, you more'n a brutha t' me. Don' wan' anythin' happen t'you. And Lucius said _he'd turn me n'to a toad, Drakey!_"

The last part was downright hysterical – not to mention Vince was clutching him by the collar at this point – and Draco wondered whether the Firewhiskey had been a mistake.

"Vince, my father never said anything like that. Get a grip, by the thunder!"

"_Don' wan' be a toad, Drakey! He'p me!_" The boy fell on his knees, buried his face within his hands, and started sobbing. Talk about a sad drunk.

Draco sighed. "All right, you can come. Go get your broom, but hurry – if you're not here in five minutes, I'm leaving without you."

Crabbe sped off stumbling. He was moving with remarkable ease for someone experiencing the first drinking binge of his life and had the brooms not been rolled into the kitchen curtains and tied well out of sight, he might have even made it within the conceded five minutes, but Draco wasn't going to take chances. He didn't wait the vowed five minutes or even one, but jumped on his broom and kicked off.

He did not have to worry about Snitches or damn goggle-eyed scarred midgets chasing him, so he just flew low and straight over the fields that covered the hills as far as the eye could see. Even at this speed, the air was hot and dry like a Desiccating Charm had been cast over the plain, and provided no relief. He flew over sparse thickets and pastures, scaring the cattle; encountered a river and after a brief debate, decided to fly across it.

When he judged he had put a good deal of miles between himself and the boys, he landed in a thicket, hid the Nimbus and the bag among the branches of a tree, and descended. His heart was thumping by now and he just wished the moon would come up and end this uncertainty once and for all. He watched the sun go down majestically behind a line of hills, and when the last speck of the fiery sphere disappeared, he lay on the grass with his head turned towards the darkest part of the sky, waiting for an answer to his questions.

There, like a crystal goblet against an indigo backdrop. He watched it rise, and laughed. There was the dreaded full moon, and there he was, fully human, fully in control, fully healthy…

An instant later, the transformation began.

It was pain, pain as he never had imagined possible, pain beyond what words could convey.

It began with his limbs, like a giant hand had squeezed his wrists in its crushing grip; like his boots had shrunk three sizes in the space of a heartbeat.

He froze and arched, his hands gnarled by the spasms, curled his lips back to reveal teeth creaking in the vice of an unrelenting lockjaw. Invisible hands pressed and pulled and squeezed his bones like clay, until his legs could no longer support him and he fell; his muscles were all pulling in a different direction, snapping joints, pulling sinews; liquid fire ran beneath his skin and consumed him in its blaze.

He wanted to scream, but the need for air was stronger. Fighting the vice-like grip that had seized his chest, he filled his lungs, gagging. It wasn't enough, and yet it was too much. Every fiber in his body burned like torchwood with the consuming fever of transformation.

He begged for this to end; he begged for an escape; he begged for the embrace of unconsciousness, and in a way his prayers were answered.

One split second before his heart gave way under the strain, it all waned, and the creature lying on the warm earth was devoid of any remnant of Draco Malfoy, or of any other human being.

He shook his head, stood up, shook his entire body and sniffed the air cautiously; everything felt awkward, unusual and hostile. His rear limbs were entangled, and he took out his fear on whatever it was that constrained him, tearing it apart with his teeth. He was alone, no friendly scent was in the air: the only companions were dizziness, pain and a hunger that had nothing to do with an empty belly, a craving which he did not know how to satisfy, yet.

He lowered his head and pressed his nose to the ground. The forest earth was soft and scented, with its bittersweet note of rot and mushrooms. Thousands of critters had wandered to and fro about their animal businesses, leaving the odorous trace of their passage between the twigs and the fallen leaves. He picked up, strongest, newest, the trail of a rabbit, smell of fur and musk and muddy roots, and the thought of prey made his mouth water. He followed it, with his nose pressed to the ground, only to trip on his own feet after a mere yard. He pulled himself up again, moved a few tentative steps and those were alright, but as soon as he tried an unsteady trot he stumbled and collapsed. He lay there, a low growl rumbling from within his chest: this wouldn't do. He turned and sniffed his hind feet. They felt good, they smelled good, they weren't tied or aching, and yet, and yet...

Frustration got the better of him, and he bit those treacherous paws, which wouldn't let him run, which needed to be put in place, drawing blood even as he yelped. He knew, with no knowledge of moon charts or watches, that the time available would be short. Awkwardly, frustrated by his own slow progress, he stood up again and descended, one step at a time, along the rabbit track, down the hillside and towards the river.

The more he walked the better he walked, and the exercise squeezed the last pangs of the change out of his bones and joints, but the moon had risen a considerable amount before he finally reached the water side.

The stream was surrounded on either side by a zone of grass and bushes and a faint breeze was blowing, unlike in the woods. Scents he did not have a name for, of cattle dung, smoke, fabric and sweat, reached his sensitive snout and a powerful rush of adrenaline rattled his body. This was better than rabbit, better than deer: this was the right scent, the right prey, the one that would above all satisfy his unnamed hunger.

He reached the water, and planted his fore legs solidly into it. It was almost warm, but the current was strong. He moved a few more steps and the water lapped his underbelly; trustingly, he moved forward.

That nearly undid him. He slipped on the unsteady stones of the riverbed, and the stream swept him sidelong: his head sank, and he breathed water. A blue icy stab of pain hit him at the back of the head: he panicked. Splashing around, he turned tail and paddled desperately until his paws met solid gravel. He pulled himself out of the stream, retched water, then shook himself and retraced his steps.

The river scared him, but the instinct was stronger. He trotted first in one direction, then in another, whimpering, testing the river for a slower current or a shallower bank, but to no avail. Out of desperation he even ran up and jumped straight in, but was caught in a vortex and trapped at the bottom for interminable moments.

It was a night of frustration and fear, spent longing and whimpering at the water's edge like a turned-down lover. Finally, the pull of the setting moon waned and tiredness settled upon him like a burden. He tried to resist it, rubbing his eyes with a front paw, stretching and yawning, but it was to no avail. All of a sudden the failed hunt did not seem too important: now it was time to rest. As the last slice of moon played hide-and-seek with the blades of grass, he surrendered to fatigue and curled up like a puppy.

Dawn caught him asleep on a mossy pasture, with his head mere inches from the water. He mumbled and licked his lips, feeling chafed skin. He was thirsty and the smell was close and inviting. He pushed himself forward, dipped his face in the stream, and lapped avidly. The water was icy in the bright light, and made his teeth ache.

It also kick-started his brain, and he was suddenly aware, with a pang of fear, of his surroundings. He was naked and covered in scratches in the middle of nowhere, his hands and feet were aching like they had been clubbed, and had no bloody idea of where his wand lay.

And on top of all this and worse than everything, there was the certainty of what he had tried to deny for an entire month.

He was cursed. For the rest of his life.


	4. You Can't Go Home Again

**The Moon is a Harsh Mistress**

**Acknowledgements:** None. Much as I appreciate my betas, I'm simply too slow for them. It's not polite to leave them hanging for a year between chapters. So, SlytherinKisses, Epoch Everlasting, Gina Hildebrand and Hyseion - so long and thanks for all the red marks. I hope my readers will from now on forgive me for the occasional typo.

Chapter four -  
You Can't Go Home Again

_Through early morning fog I see  
visions of the things to be  
the pains that are withheld for me  
I realize and I can see...  
Tha__t __suicide__ is __painless__  
It brings on many changes  
and I can take or leave it if I please_

_JOHNNY MANDEL, 'Suicide is Painless'_

* * *

He did not move. There was no point in going anywhere anyway.  
He just lay where he had fallen asleep, lazily running his hand over the pebbles of the river bank, appreciating the realness of their texture against his chafed palms.  
A merciful fate had erased the events of the last hours from his conscience, but the blankness lying in their place was a telltale warning: he was not the master anymore, no longer in control of himself.  
He had never paid much thought to the pebbles, but now he considered their sheltered existence and envied them: day after day, year after year they were the same – made of stone, unaffected by sudden changes of fortune.  
Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes and rolled down freely. He smelled their saltiness and suddenly his apathy vanished in a gush of pity. He curled into a ball, drew a quivering breath and started sobbing loudly.

A hoot answered his cries and as he raised his head he saw a flutter of speckled gold. Kratos landed beside him, nibbled his earlobe playfully and made cooing sounds, clearly proud of having tracked his master through the distance and the transformation.

Draco shooed him harshly. "Leave me alone, you dumb chicken!"

His throat was so dry that the words came out like a growl, and the enormity of his fate sent him again into a fit of hysteria. Kratos took off hastily and perched among the branches of a tree, reminding his master of his presence with soft hoots from time to time.

Draco was determined to ignore that call, but there were others not as easy to keep unanswered. His stomach was grumbling, his pelvis ached from having laid on stones and his bladder was about to burst. Slowly, he pulled himself up – every joint in his body popping like an Exploding Snap card – limped on the pebbly bank to a thick bush, and relieved himself, squatting like a girl.  
The stench emanating from his body made him nauseous and he slowly reached the river again, to wash his hands and face. His own reflection in the water brought no surprise: the same sharp face, fair hair and grey eyes of ever - no one would have guessed what was hiding under those familiar features.

But there was something hiding indeed, something that made the outlines of his own face blurry and undefined: as if his reflection was superimposed on something else. His sight was blurred, double, like print read through a calcite crystal, and no matter how he blinked or rubbed his eyes the sensation remained: the presence of something... extraneous... about his _thoughts!_  
With a little concentration he could focus upon its source: merely awake, cuddled in the back of his mind, something so completely extraneous to the human conscience that there was no way to even attempt a dialogue in any form._  
_

His stomach upturned. He managed to keep down the first heave, but on the second one he felt like he was going to turn inside out and dropped on the grass on all fours, retching. Merlin, he hated to throw up, to lose control of his own body like a baby.  
Being sick on an empty stomach was awful: his entire body was shaken by the heaves, and all that was to show for his efforts were a few drops of yellow bile. He wished that it would be a good omen, that his body was finally fighting to expel the parasite: but his body hadn't put up much of a fight in the last month, had it?

The presence was tiny, awkward, almost cute in its clumsiness, and a newborn man-eater at that. As the parasite lingered at the edge of Draco's perception, a flash of pure, blinding logic erupted, leaving a white hot concept impressed in his brain.

_Take it with you._

It made sense. It would be the right and proper thing to do – brave, commendable, even. It made sense, and gave him a reason to start walking. As if he had been waiting nothing else than that moment, Kratos took off with a loud chirp.  
He probably would have gotten lost if not for the owl, who kept prodding him towards the right direction with his calls, as if Draco had been a chick fallen from the nest. Even with his help, walking back to where his stuff and clothes lay took forever. The grass, scorched by the summer heat, felt like caltrop underneath the tender soles of his feet, and progress was slow and painful.  
Finally, he recognised the hill and the thicket in which he had landed the previous day. The broom and bag were still among the branches, untouched; the spare robes had been a good idea, as the ones he had been wearing were torn to rags. He donned them – the idea of being found stark naked did not appeal to him – then fished out the wand from the bag.  
He rolled the wand among clumsy fingers. One single spell would put an end to this ordeal: no more need for elaborate plans and lies, no more fear of being discovered. He would not have to endure once more the pain of transformation, or the mindless savagery that ensued.

_Do it__, before you grow into a monster. Before you're found out and your name is shamed._

The wand weighed nothing and felt fragile in his hand as he slowly raised it into position: hardly something to be afraid of. The presence in his head sensed his turmoil and stirred with panic, rightly so.

The right words wouldn't form. With his mouth dry, he tried to recall the agonizing spasms of the previous night, the endless times in the past weeks when he had feared that the bandages would show, that Father would wonder about the rate at which disinfectant was disappearing, that Mother would notice his sweaty forehead and sunken eyes and become suspicious. He thought of everything that had gone well and could have done otherwise... His luck wouldn't go on forever.

_Before you find a thousand reasons you'd rather not to. __Hurry._

He knelt and prepared to speak the words the impostor Moody had taught them the year before: he just needed to utter them, and his world would be over. But his throat wouldn't make a sound, his mind didn't dare to have a thought for fear it might come out loud. His wand hand, white-knuckled and clammy, was trembling as he mustered all his willpower for the deed. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a pestle in a mortar, his back was coated in a sheath of icy sweat. In a supreme all-out effort, he forced his mouth to form the word.

A wordless cry escaped from his lips. Abruptly, he yanked the wand out of his own right hand and threw it away, watched it whirl in the air and plant itself in the grass, tip first. Still on his knees, he curled into a ball, and his cry turned into another sobbing fit.

_Coward_, the voice said, scathingly.

"No," Draco sobbed out loud. "I won't."

He had not wanted it. He could not help it. And yet he should now have to kill himself out of some misplaced notion of decency.  
No. No sodding _way_. He may have been half a beast now, but the other half was still a Malfoy, and that had to count for something. His were the name and the means, and he was going to use them to stay in this world, not to tiptoe out of existence - for what? So that winos and bag hags could safely tuck in for the night in doorways, or set up camp in urine-stenched underpasses? Trembling with impotent rage at the world's injustice, he clenched his fists and shoved them in his mouth. His sight became blurry again, but this time he squeezed the tears out of his eyes and swallowed hard; he was _tired _of crying.  
He stood up and strode to where the wand was stuck. Kratos hooted again, invisible, from the trees. There was a new uncertainty in his call.

"Don't worry," Draco spoke to the branched vaults. "I won't do anything this stupid again. Lead the way, we're going home."

From the recesses of his brain, the vermin moaned its approval.

* * *

The return flight took place in broad daylight, but the only witnesses were swallows, cows, and horseflies: nothing else dared to move in that paralysing heat.

Warm elation ran through Draco as he landed and spotted his friends under the tent, now opened for the day. Crabbe and Goyle would never know how close they had been to sharing his own fate. He had no idea of how much ground a simple animal could cover in a night; if he had not flown over the river by mere chance... A gruesome vision of the possible outcome flashed before his eyes and he shook his head to get rid of that, and through the relief came the realisation that he needed to keep this hidden from them... or he would have been at their mercy.  
A cynical thought formed in his mind._ Perhaps they would be more cooperative if the three of us were in the same condition_...  
_No. _He shooed the idea. That would only mean three times the hassle, three times the risk: neither Vince nor Greg would have the ability to hide their condition if they became infected. They were good for acting as lookouts, but that was all that there was.

He approached the tent, broom at shoulder-arms. All the windows and curtains had been rolled up in an attempt to take advantage of drafts, but the air was as hot as dragon belch. Only Vince was up, rummaging through the drawers, whereas Greg was lying on his bunk and groaning. He looked sick from twenty paces: his forehead was covered in drops of sweat the size of newt eyes and his complexion had taken a greenish tinge, like ham that was about to go off. Vince had soaked a handkerchief in iced water, and stood with that in hand as if unsure of what came next.

"Oi! Look what the Kneazle brought in," he snorted as Draco set foot in the tent. "Fuckin' time, mate."

Yeah, definitely Crabbe was not going to play down his getaway. Better change the subject. "What's wrong with Greg?"

The reply came through clenched teeth. "He got drunk, passed out and lay in the heat all day, 'cos I was busy looking for you, you git."

"It's all right. I'll take it from here," Draco said, reaching the kitchen and dropping the broomstick along the way. He felt groggy himself and not in the mood for brewing, but Greg was making sounds like a bullfrog and if he didn't improve they would have to go home, something he was not looking forward to.  
The cupboard had a good selection of potion ingredients and hangover remedies (it had been used for men-only hunting parties after all), so Draco brewed a few herbs and spices in a kettle, navigating by sight, as Crabbe stood by motionless, radiating disapproval, like a miniature Snape.  
The end result would never have helped anyone scrape an 'A' at Hogwarts, but Greg was in no condition to notice. He took a sip and made a grimace, but he was too ill to protest as they pinched his nose and poured the concoction down his throat. His eyes bulged as if he was about to be sick, then he let out a thunderous belch, rolled over on his side, and closed his eyes.

Draco let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, and when he turned to Crabbe he saw that some of the tension had dissipated from his stance, too. The relief, however, was going to be short-lived.

"Where the fuck were you?" Vince hissed as soon as they were sure that Greg was on his way to a peaceful recovery. "Why did you run away?"

Draco had been thinking about this all the way back. The matter of his disappearance had to be nipped in the bud, and to do so he needed something so absurd that it couldn't possibly have been made up, something beyond the wildest imagination of an average liar, something that would make Crabbe sorry he had even asked.

He made a bewildered face.  
"Why did I run away? _You _ask _me_, Vince?"

"Yeah, and you better have a good reason to," he insisted. Everything in him, from the narrowed eyes to the jaw sticking out, spelled belligerence.

Draco saw Vince's resentment and raised his own outrage, meeting his gaze firmly.  
"Oh, you don't remember now, don't you? Telling me how I was your best friend, how I was more than a brother to you...?"

"_What?..._"

"...How you wished I could be _more_ than that? Some friend you turned out to be! I should've cursed your drunken arse. I only flew the coop because I didn't want to!"

Vincent turned red. He stood there, huffing like a bull, his huge fists shaking, and Draco precipitously stepped back. He had gone past the mark. He was about to have his teeth punched out, he was going to be beaten to a pulp...  
Vince stepped forward and Draco recoiled in terror, preparing to pull out his wand and risk an enquiry for underage magic if it came down to it. He could not possibly be prepared for what came next.

Vince 's entire face contorted in a grotesque expression of disgust, he brought a meaty fist up to his mouth and bit on it, his body shaking with silent sobs. Tears pooled in his eyes and rolled down his cheek when he clenched his eyelids shut.

"I'm - I'm sorry..." Crabbe said in a barely audible whisper. "I - I'd never, Draco, _never_!"

Of all the possible reactions Draco had anticipated, this had failed to make the list. It was so unlike Crabbe, he did not know what to do or say. Tentatively, he shrugged, and murmured some words of comfort.  
"C'mon, no harm done, it was just the booze. I was just pissed, should have known better than that. Let's just forget about it, huh?"

But Vince wouldn't just forget. He had his face hidden in his hands now, and shook away the hand that Draco was offering.

The hair rose with a shiver on Draco's back. No. No way, not... but as Vince lay there miserably, nearly rolling on the floor in shame, he realized he had shot blindly... and hit the bullseye.  
It took some strength of will for him to reach out and put his hand onto Vince's shoulder. It felt, or maybe he imagined it would feel, sweaty hot and soft under the robes, like the confession had caused his muscles to lose their compactness.

"It's no big deal," he said, with the kindest tone he could summon. "It's just a phase, you'll grow out of it, I'm sure."

By now Vince was curled out in a fetal position, snorting. He shook his head. "It's no use. I try, Draco, I _try_!"

Draco sighed, walked inside the tent and sat on one of the armchairs, trying not to make it look too obvious that he had picked the farthest away from Crabbe. He huffed again.

"What a lousy vacation. Let's go home."

That gave Vince some respite. He rose to his knees, then to his feet. He stared squarely at Draco from across the room, his shiny face still spasming from too many incompatible emotions.  
"Swear you'll _never _ speak of this to _anyone_," he spat out.

"Deal," Draco said wearily.

* * *

If it had been up to him, Draco would have zinged to his room the second the Floo deposited him onto the carpet in the Manor's hall. But his parents were curious and pressed him for details of his camping holiday, especially since he had returned much earlier than anticipated. In the end, they believed, or pretended to believe, that Goyle had been sick on account of some unwashed gooseberries they had picked from the hedgerows of a Muggle farm.

"Muggles and their _chemicals_," Father sneered. "Small wonder they're all cretins, poisoning their own food and cattle."

Draco went up to his room and quietly unpacked his luggage. The task did not take long and he briefly felt a pang of sympathy for Goyle, who had to put away the tent on top of everything else. Then he lay on the bed and wondered how he was going to deal with his new predicament.  
First of all he needed intelligence, sound and solid; no more fantasy prose or hearsay tripe. Snape probably had forgotten more about werewolves than most people ever got to know in their life, but he would be suspicious of such a sudden interest in lycanthropy.  
But Draco couldn't just show up at Flourish and Bott's and leave with a barrelful of books under his arms, either... what would he say, that they were for a summer project? Now he wished he had bothered with the damned things before. But no one else in Slytherin was doing them and he didn't want to pass for a swot like that Mudblood Granger. Lupin was the worst choice, bar none. He would scuttle off to tell Dumbledore that Lucius' son had developed a novel and inexplicable interest for werewolves, and the old dotard would have him in his wrinkly hands.

_But I'm an idiot._

When Snape had ousted Lupin, he had said something about a potion wasted... staying up well into the night, or something, and the patient hadn't even taken it... and it was obviously a potion made especially for werewolves, otherwise no one would have been able to make the connection. But what was its name again? And what did it do?

As he tried to pinpoint the memory, Lupin, his third year, the Dementors, the Hogsmeade visits... something clicked. Not the potion's name, but something just as useful. Something that had happened a year later, in Hogsmeade.  
This dodgy wizard had been standing at the corner with giving out blank parchments as "bookshop order forms", and they had thought of a con, until Blaise had ordered _that magazine_... in spite of his worries and weakened state, the blood rushed to his groin at the mere thought of the illustrations scattered among _Witches Behaving Wickedly_. The bookshop guaranteed "a vast assortment, competitive prices, and no questions asked". Draco nodded pensivey: it was worth a try.  
He found his own parchment right were he had left it, among the Astronomy notes in the Hogwarts trunk. He went to the scriptorium and took a quill. The vellum was foxed and looked like it had been scraped once too many, but took up ink just fine.

_Hello  
Are you still in business?_

His writing hovered onto the parchment for an instant, then seemed to sink into the page. Nothing happened for several seconds, then all of a sudden, handwriting rose to the surface, making him jolt.

_Certainly we are._  
_How may I help?_

Draco took his time. He should have thought this one through before putting his quill to the parchment and now he had to think on his feet and come up with something that would not draw attention... but what?  
Whoever was at the other parchment must have been used to customer losing their courage halfway through, because when Draco timidly doodled:

_I need a book about werewolves_

the words appeared on the parchment almost instantly:

_Fiction or non-fiction?_

_Non-fiction, I need to know how to dis_

Draco stopped just in time, biting his lips. He thought of scribbling that last part, but had a better idea:

_distinguish a werewolf, I think my neighbour is one._

_Keep watching_, was the reply. _I'm sending the list._

_Sweat of Merlin_, Draco thought. There was a _list_?

The list appeared, all at once and in block characters, as if it had been stamped.

_- _**The Moon Curse Explained:** _'Substantial, yet highly accessible work.'_

_- _**Hairy Snout, Human Heart:** _'Full of insight and humanity.'_

_- _**Der Mondfluch - Lycanthropy throughout Continental Europe:** _'The most complete work on the subject.'_

_- _**A Curse Without a Cure: **_'A thorough chronicle of three thousand years of promising starts and dead ends.'_

_- _**Werewolf #21784:** _'A month in the life of a registered werewolf. Hilarious or disturbing? You be the judge.'_

_- _**A Tale of Two Curses:** _'The definitive starting point to understand Lycanthropy and Vampirism.'_

- **…**

Once the parchment was completely full, the writing continued on the other side, and so on. Draco settled for _The Moon Curse Explained_, _The Twenty-eightieth Night_, and _Inhuman on the outside: an Interview with the Werewolf_, but gave _Werewolf Organs and Their Use in Amulets_ a wide berth.

_That will be 8 Galleons 13 Sickles, _the writing on the parchment stated._ Send a sturdy owl to collect your parcel: an employee will be waiting at 15 Ambush Lane, Hogsmeade. Thanks for your purchase and good luck in finding your werewolf._

The last traces of ink vanished and Draco breathed. Now that had been easy. He went to the scriptorium, took out the money purse and counted 8 Galleons 13 Sickles. It was a lot of money for three books, probably torn, smoke-cured or water damaged, but the extra privacy was well worth it. He picked a largish owl purse and whistled to call Kratos.

The beautiful eagle owl landed without a sound on the sill and stood on attention, staring at his master with golden eyes. He did not move as Draco filled the purse, then tied it to his leg.

"15 Ambush Lane, Hogsmeade. A man will give you a few books to bring back to me. Is it all right?"

Kratos nodded gravely, proud of being once more useful to his master. He turned, spread his wings and took off from the sill, as silent as smoke.

Draco watched him soar into the night, relieved. Never he would have imagined that he had sent out the loyal familiar to his death.


End file.
